which hem in the precious ballet at either end
are useful, in that they enable us— not British
tourist merely, but Florentine of Florence,
born under the shadow of Giotto's campanile,
heritors of the artistic glories, &c. &c., natives
of the "laud of song," &c. &c., countrymen of the
Pergolesis, Palestrinas, Rossinis, Donizettis,
Bellinis, and a great many more too numerous
to mention— to enjoy our after-dinner coffee at
our ease, and stroll in coolly, bringing with us
ambrosial odours of cigars, in time to witness
a performance so entirely responsive to our
artistic proclivities and perceptions.

Descends from his throne the " maestro di
capella," who wields his bâton over solo and
chorus. Enters in his place the director of
the dance music. Rap, rap, rap. Attention
in the ranks! One, two, three, four crash,
clang, rub-a-dub-dub-dub! The prelude, &c.,
symphony to "Shakespeare; a grand ballet,"
is beginning. Fluttering of fans, rustling
of robes, general inspection of pocket-
handkerchiefs. The audience in the pit— not "noi
altri" of the posti distinti, but the citizens
on those hinder benches— seize this
opportunity, almost to a man, of pulling forth,
each his pocket-handkerchief, and either blowing
his nose with some emphasis or wiping
his manly brow. The symphony is not
peculiarly melodious, nor indeed peculiarly
anything— except loud. One has a great "deal of
noise for one's money; and it is, too, rather
military in its character, so that one would not
be surprised to be told that it had been originally
composed for " Julius Cæsar; a grand ballet,"
or " Marshal Blücher; a grand ballet."

At length— and truly at no great length— it
ceases, and the canvas screen rises; rises
slowly, deliberately, almost, one may say, in a
cold-blooded manner, as though there were no
colto pubblico, no cultured public anxiously
awaiting Shakespeare and the twinkling of
innumerable legs. Scene the first is clearly
festive in its character. The stage represents
— according to all the light of nature we can
bring to bear upon it— the interior of an inn.
There are tables. Tables on the stage usually
mean one of two things: banquets, or
documents. Here are no documents. There is, if
memory serve us, one bottle; may be more.
Groups of nondescript hilarious individuals
stand near the tables. There is present, the
landlord. Him we recognise by his white apron
and rubicund nose. Mine host is an universal
character— a citizen of the world. Besides, is not
this " Shakespeare; a grand ballet?" And does
not the scene lie in England? An English landlord
whose nose should not be inflamed with
liquor, would indeed show us to be ignorant of
our subject. By all means let us have couleur
locale. And in this case let the colouring be
red, and the locality the landlord's nose.
Present also, are the landlord's daughter— a
pleasing young lady in the costume of the early
part of Henry the Eighth's reign— and the
cook. The cook need not be described. Never
from, our tenderest childhood did we witness a
Christmas pantomime without beholding the
twin brother of that cook.

On a placard hanging at one side of the stage
are these words, " Questa sera si rappresenta
Macbeth." This evening, Macbeth is to be
performed. But where? By whom? No matter.

The nondescript hilarious ones trip a gay
measure, and then there enters a— gentleman
in black. Hush— sh— sh! Silence in the house!
During the opera a little gentle gossip (let us
in honesty state that it must, however, be
gentle gossip) does no harm. But now that
the ballet has begun, we need to concentrate
all our faculties. Sight alone suffices not. We
must be undisturbed in our breathless attention
even by the dropping of a pin. Know ye not
this black velvet apparition with a peaked
beard? Dense British tourist, who has never
seen anything quite like him, stares bewildered.
Stupid, stupid, thrice stupid, Saxon! 'Tis he!
—'tis Shakespeare! And if you do not recognise
your Williams, so much the worse for you.
Williams, the divine one, is a personable fellow
enough. Not ungraceful, and with well-turned
legs cased in black silk hose.

Shakespeare is received with much friendly
show of welcome by the landlord, the cook, the
landlord's daughter, and the hilarious assembly.
These latter individuals, however, smile dumbly
from a distance on the Bard, and linger
tenaciously around the tables, as though expecting
a supply of victuals by-and-by. But soon it
appears that Shakespeare, despite his well-
turned legs, his graceful mien, and his inky
cloak, is not free from blemishes of temper.
For no reason whatsoever that we can discover,
he quarrels with the landlord, and invites him
then and there to box! The landlord turns up
his cuffs, and they set-to with a will. The
hilarious ones look on smiling, with pointed toes.

Of the style in which Shakespeare and the host
display their knowledge of the noble science of
self-defence, I feel myself incompetent to convey
an idea to the minds of my compatriots.
Perhaps it is historic. Perhaps it was thus
men boxed in the Elizabethan era. At all
events it has this advantage— one, alas! not to
be numbered among the merits of our modern
P.R. it can hurt nobody! Babes and sucklings,
with puffy pink fists, might box each
other so, and come off scatheless. Each man
keeps his elbows well in to his side, and makes
his clenched hands revolve rapidly over and
over one another for some time. Ever and
anon he stretches forth his arm and taps his
foe lightly on the chest and shoulders.
Shakespeare's features express fury; his eyes roll;
his brows are knit. But still his fists
revolve harmlessly for the most part. At length
the landlord unwarily turns his back, and quick
as lightning, with the unerring instinct of
genius, the Bard seizes the opportunity thus
offered to him, of decisive victory. One thump
skilfully administered behind, and the landlord
falls heavilyinto the arms of his backer, the cook!

The combat is over. It had no apparent
cause, neither does any result seem likely to